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"He and Jack served together. That's why they're like brothers."

I look toward the fields ahead.

"So Atlas is his service dog."

"Yes," she says simply, the way you say something that has always been true. "Jack has one too."

I don't say anything after that. Emma pulls through the gate and parks. We get out of the car.

I stand beside Emma's truck wearing old jeans, sneakers I don't mind ruining, and enough uncertainty to make me question every decision that brought me here.

The first thing I notice is the sign.

OAKRIDGE VETERANS FARM

Below it, in smaller letters:

GROW. WORK. BELONG.

I read the words twice.

The second thing I notice is that the farm is already moving. People cross between the barn and the outbuildings. Someone pushes a wheelbarrow toward the greenhouse. A tractor hums somewhere beyond the fields. Dogs bark in the distance.

This isn't the quiet little volunteer operation I'd pictured. Not even close.

Emma glances down at my feet.

"I warned you."

I look at her boots, then at my sneakers. "You said shoes I didn't mind getting dirty."

"I assumed you understood farm."

"Apparently we have different definitions of dirty."

She laughs.

"Come on, New York."

"Don't start."

"I haven't even started."

We head toward the barn. A large black-and-tan dog sits beside one of the barn doors, watching us approach. His tail starts thumping as we get closer.

"Is this Ranger?"

Emma smiles.

"You've been listening to Noah."

"It's impossible not to. Ranger has apparently achieved mythical status."

At the sound of his name, Ranger's tail thumps harder. I crouch and hold out my hand. He sniffs it, then leans his entire head into my palm.

"Oh."

Emma grins.